Armor weaved out of sundried palm leaves, her Quixote was perfect for my straightjacketed Dulcinea. With red thread, I stitched a white habit out of an armful of my baby brother’s best cloth diapers. The costume was tight around my ankles. I moved an inch and something ripped—my mother is going to wring my neck.
The red stitches caused a riot: Mother Superior blamed my “wilds” on pliable rulers. But Sister Virtudes de la Piedad said that plastic had similar howl-birthing powers.
I was punished in plastic. I didn’t howl or ask for redemption, but said to Mother and Sister that they were unfair and braindead. Quixote was told never to speak to me again. I thought she would fight for us. But her eyes were heavy with the shame she was told I should have felt… And she ran away to befriend giant-thought-sucking windmills.
armed in power red
Panza’s bare feet kiss the soil
prune unseen giants
Note: one of my best friends says that “pain is a betrayer”. I agree with her. Pain attacks from within, and it makes the whole thing feel as if it is your fault. It leaves the mind and body hurt and confused, asking: Why are you doing this? What do you want for me?
NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero, Day 2 – Creativity and Pain: “This poem should explore creativity as a healing salve, as a shield, as a weapon, or as a negotiation method to use when dealing with physical and/or psychological pain.”
linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads: Mama Zen said, “Today, I want you to tell us about the house that built you. It doesn’t have to be an actual house; it can be a school house, a house of worship, a tree-house…. any place from your younger years that has special meaning to you now.” My house is bright red.
Tilting at Windmills ©2015 Galen Valle